“That was the Tom I knew,” Hugo said softly.
“And that was the Tom I dreamed and hoped and thought he would become when he was a little shaver. Well, he did, Danner.”
“A thousand times he did.”
Ralph Jordan Shayne blew his nose unashamedly. He thought of his patiently waiting wife. “I’ve got to go, I suppose. This has been more than kind of you, Mr. Danner—Lieutenant Danner. I’m glad—more glad than I can say—that you were there. I understand from the major that you’re no small shakes in this army yourself.” He smiled deferentially. “I wish there was something we could do for you.”
“Nothing. Thank you, Mr. Shayne.”
“I’m going to give you my card. In New York—my name is not without meaning.”
“It is very familiar to me. Was before I met your son.”
“If you ever come to the city—I mean, when you come—you must look us up. Anything we can do—in the way of jobs, positions—” He was confused.
Hugo shook his head. “That’s very kind of you, sir. But I have some means of my own and, right now, I’m not even thinking of going back to New York.”
Mr. Shayne stepped into the car. “I would like to do something.” Hugo realized the sincerity of that desire. He reflected.
“Nothing I can think of—”
“I’m a banker. Perhaps—if I might take the liberty—I could handle your affairs?”
Hugo smiled. “My affairs consist of one bank account in the City Loan that would seem very small to you, Mr. Shayne.”
“Why, that’s one of my banks. I’ll arrange it. You know and I know how small the matter of money is. But I’d appreciate your turning over some of your capital to me. I would consider it a blessed opportunity to return a service, a great service with a small one, I’m afraid.”
“Thanks,” Hugo said.
The banker scribbled a statement, asked a question, and raised his eyebrows over the amount Hugo gave him. Then he was the father again. “We’ve been to the cemetery, Danner. We owe that privilege to you. It says there, in French: ‘The remains of a great hero who gave his life for France.’ Not America, my boy; but I think that France was a worthy cause.”
When they had gone, Hugo spent a disturbed afternoon. He had not been so moved in many, many months.
XV
Now the streets of Paris were assailed by the color of olive drab, the twang of Yankee accents, the music of Broadway songs. Hugo watched the first parade with eyes somewhat proud and not a little sombre. Each shuffling step seemed to ask a rhythmic question. Who would not return to Paris? Who would return once and not again? Who would be blind? Who would be hideous? Who would be armless, legless, who would wear silver plates and leather props for his declining years? Hugo wondered, and, looking into those sometimes stern and sometimes ribald faces, he saw that they had not yet commenced to wonder.
They did not know the hammer and shock of falling shells and the jelly and putty which men became. They chafed and bantered and stormed every café and cocotte impartially, recklessly. Even the Legion had been more grim and better prepared for the iron feet of war. They fell upon Hugo with their atrocious French—two young men who wanted a drink and could not make the bartender understand.
“Hey, fransay,” they called to him, “comment dire que nous voulez des choses boire?”
Hugo smiled. “What do you birds want to drink?”
“God Almighty! Here’s a Frog that speaks United States. Get the gang. What’s your name, bo?”
“Danner.”
“Come on an’ have a flock of drinks on us. You’re probably dying on French pay. You order for the gang and we’ll treat.” Eager, grinning American faces. “Can you get whisky in this Godforsaken dump?”
“Straight or highball?”
“That’s the talk. Straight, Dan. We’re in the army now.”
Hugo drank with them. Only for one moment did they remember they were in the army to fight: “Say, Dan, the war really isn’t as tough as they claim, is it?”
“I don’t know how tough they claim it is.”
“Well, you seen much fightin’?”
“Three years.”
“Is it true that the Heinies—?” His hands indicated his question.
“Sometimes. Accidentally, more or less. You can’t help it.”
“And do them machine guns really mow ’em down?”
Hugo shrugged. “There are only four men in service now who started with my company.”
“Ouch! Garçon! Encore! An’ tell him to make it double—no, triple—Dan, old man. It may be my last.” To Hugo: “Well, it’s about time we got here an’ took the war off your shoulders. You guys sure have had a bellyful. An’ I’m goin’ to get me one right here and now. Bottoms up, you guys.”
Hugo was transferred to an American unit. The officers belittled the recommendations that came with him. They put him in the ranks. He served behind the lines for a week. Then his regiment moved up. As soon as the guns began to rumble, a nervous second lieutenant edged toward the demoted private. “Say, Danner, you’ve been in this before. Do you think it’s all right to keep on along this road the way we are?”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say. You’re taking a chance. Plane strafing and shells.”
“Well, what else are we to do? These are our orders.”
“Nothing,” Hugo said.
When the first shells fell among them, however, Danner forgot that his transference had cost his commission and sadly bereft Captain Crouan and his command. He forgot his repressed anger at the stupidity of American headquarters and their bland assumption of knowledge superior to that gained by three years of actual fighting. He virtually took charge of his company, ignoring the bickering of a lieutenant who swore and shouted
